Rick Dockery sat up in his hospital bed and looked his agent square in the eye. "How bad is it?" he asked.

"The concussion is the least of your problems," Arnie replied. "You threw three bad passes in 11 minutes when you came on as third-change quarterback and cost the Browns a place in the Super Bowl. No one in Cleveland will ever talk to you again. You are now officially the worst ever player in NFL history."

Rick choked back a sob. It was not always easy being a lummox.

"There is some good news, though," Arnie said. "I've got you a contract as the pro quarterback for Parma in the Italian league. Three thousand euros a month plus an apartment and a car."

Rick had never heard of Italy, but it sounded a long, long way away and a long, long way away was the place he needed to be.

"I see what you mean," Sam smiled. "But it's not that type of story. He's writing something homier and cuter this time."

"No gangsters, then?" Rick asked, somewhat disappointed.

"No. It's just a feelgood travel romp to show that Italy may be foreign and bad at football - they play soccer here - but even airheaded jocks can appreciate the quaintness if they really try. Look, to get us started, why don't you start by asking me some brainless questions so I can explain a few of the basic differences between the US and Italy."

"OK," said Rick as they got in to Sam's car. "What's that lever?"

"It's a stick-shift, Rick. Most cars over here aren't automatic. They also sell gas by the litre rather than the gallon.

"Italians don't like fast food, Rick. We take pride in our cooking and like to spend a long time talking to each other at meals."

"Mmm," slurped Rick. "I like this Parma ham. Does it come from round here?

Sam nodded encouragingly before spending several pages talking about the local curing process. "You're getting the hang of this now," he said. "Carry on like this and we'll get along fine. Just don't forget to lose your second match to create some narrative tension before winning all the rest."

Rick was depressed about losing his second match. But at least he had met some nice locals who would read the guidebook out loud to him and show him the cultural points of interest.

"What did you think of Otello by Giuseppe Verdi, Italy's greatest ever composer, at the Teatro Regio, one of Italy's finest opera houses?" Sam asked him.

"It was nearly as good as Oklahoma," Rick enthused. "And I fancied the woman singing Desdemona. I'm going to ask her on a date."

"You're right," Rick agreed, as he spotted another woman at the bar. He wandered over to introduce himself. "I guess you must be a cheerleader."

"Actually I'm not," the woman replied. "I'm Livvy, an American history of art student, and even though you are congenitally stupid I'm going to fall in love with you and take you to Florence to appreciate the wonders of Italian art."

It was the final play of the Italian Super Bowl and Parma was trailing. Rick threw the ball a world record distance and ... TOUCHDOWN. He was a hero after all.

The phone rang at the restaurant that evening. It was Arnie.

"Congratulations. I've got you a contract in Canada."

Rick looked at Livvy and his team-mates. "I think I'll stay here for un poco longer. There's a festival of the pig's bladder in the next village that I don't want to miss."